The beggar’s pupils expand, anticipating Iltar’s answer; however, as the necromancer stares into the old man’s eyes, the beggar’s irises shift in shape, swirling around his pupils.
A moment of silence passes between the two men when Iltar finally regains his composure; he blinks once and notices the beggar’s eyes appear as they had initially.
“Wha…?” Iltar gasps and the beggar relinquishes his grip, yet rests his hand against the necromancer’s arm.
“Would you help me?” the beggar asks again in the same bereft tone.
Without a word, Iltar hurriedly thrusts the old man’s hand away and pushes past the petitioner; he almost runs across the corner of the square to the raised wooden path leading to the Sea Vistonia’s entrance. Once at the door, he turns his head slightly to see the beggar still standing by his horse and tying the reigns to the post.
Taking a deep breath to regain his composure, Iltar grips the handle of the door leading into the tavern. He immediately opens the heavy wood door and steps through into the waiting area.
Guests crowd the booths along the edges of the entry lounge and opposite of the doors is a chest high podium where a middle-aged man acts as the host. He gives a brisk smile to Iltar and motions for him to come forward.
With the frazzling experience still showing across his face, the necromancer walks to the podium.
“Are you okay sir? You look frightened, did something happen outside?” the host asks in a mild but deep tone.
“You-you need to do a better job of keeping street scum out of this square!” Iltar snaps, slowly regaining his typical composure. “There was a man out there begging me to give him something of monetary value!”
Hearing this, the host sighs as he walks past the necromancer and pushes his way through the thick doors. His footsteps can be heard as he walks down the elevated veranda.
Meanwhile, Iltar glances about the foyer and several of the guests look alarmed; they dart worried gazes between Iltar and then to the door, waiting for the host to return.
Several seconds later the host returns and stands beyond the doors with a puzzled expression on his face. “There’s no one there… I didn’t see anyone like that in the square. How long ago was this?” the host asks in a slightly annoyed tone, his brow narrows as he looks at Iltar.
Having someone slandering the restaurant’s reputation was not something he or any of the other employees of the establishment took lightly. The Sea Vistonia had set a presence for itself of affluence, and subsequently the surrounding area.
Taken aback, Iltar steps out into the veranda with determination with the host at his side; both quickly walk back toward the square where there is no sign of the old beggar. He had vanished as fast as he had appeared.
“It was just now…” Iltar’s words trail off as he looks around the square. “He was an old cripple, he couldn’t have gone far. He…” the necromancer’s face slowly twists with horror as his mind races through the possibilities, “No! He couldn’t be a drag–”
“Now that that is out of the way,” the host interrupts Iltar’s thoughts from the wooden path, “How many are with you?”
Iltar shakily responds while surveying the square, “Just myself and I want a private table…”
“Very well.”
Still scanning the square, Iltar can hear the host walking back toward the doors leading into the fabled restaurant, leaving Iltar alone at the base of the wooden walkway.
A moment later, Iltar mutters in confusion, “But that story is only a child’s fable; it can’t be. It doesn’t make any sense, how could they take a different for–”
“Iltar…?” a sultry voice calls out to him from his left. “It is you, isn’t it?”
The necromancer darts a frazzled glance in the direction of the beckoning and sees a tall slender woman. Her black hair is puffed up in the front and pulled back into a braid reaching midway down her back. A smooth light skinned complexion covers her thin face, and her chin rounds out with a dimple. Her dim hazel eyes lack any luster they once possessed. She is dressed in light tan clothing, a woman’s tunic and pants, with dark brown boots.
Iltar’s eyes narrow as she approaches; he smiles, but not out of nostalgia.
“My my… it is you,” she licks the corner of her lower lip and bites it as she examines the necromancer. “You look so old, and even more so with that strained look on your face.”
Iltar lets out a bashful cackle and shakes his head. He turns aside, thinking of what to say.
“Gwenyth,” Iltar thinks to himself, “I haven’t seen her in so long… This is awkward.”
Gwenyth had been a student at the Sorothian Magical Order, prior to its conversion by his preceding necromancers, and was an illusionist. Iltar had always admired her, partially because of her name which was shared by Iltar’s mother, and her once youthful beauty.
“Still shy like that little boy you once were,” Gwenyth puts one hand on her hip while the other hangs at her side, waiting for Iltar to respond.
Iltar turns back to her and lets out a sigh before saying, “Well, it has been a very eventful day for me and seeing you has…”
With that said, Iltar motions with his wrist at a loss for words.
“You still are not good with people are you?” Gwenyth looks at him with a perplexed expression and her lip pouts out at one side. “It was good to see you Iltar…”
As Gwenyth walks off, Iltar wakes from his childish stupor, “Wait! I need to speak with you.”
Gwenyth stops midway between Iltar and the doors to the tavern. She looks forward toward the doors with a look of surprise before she turns to face Iltar. “It took you over thirty five years to finally get the courage to stop me from walking away?”
“No… it’s not like that,” Iltar stammers the words.
“Then what is it? I’m hungry,” her words are filled with irritation.
“Perhaps we should discuss it over dinner–”
“No!” Gwenyth shakes her head and leans forward, “You’ll tell me right now. Quit dancing around it and tell me.”
“Will you take a seat on the council of the Sorothian Magical Order?”
“What?!” Gwenyth shakes her head, questioning Iltar’s invitation. “Iltar don’t jest about that, stop wasting my time!”
With that said, Gwenyth quickly turns and continues to the door of the establishment.
“Stop!” Iltar barks the word and changes into his dominating behavior. He marches toward Gwenyth, who has stopped near the doors. “You obviously don’t know what has transpired do you?”
“I suppose not…” Gwenyth turns, then folds her arms. “Enlighten me.”
Iltar narrates the tale of his rise to leadership within the Order, feeding the same lie he and his coconspirators have fed to those they’ve encountered on Soroth. Gwenyth had heard nothing of the ordeal. She lived on one of the remote islands and was visiting Soroth for an annual trade of a farm surplus her and her family grew. Amid the tale, Gwenyth looks at Iltar with genuine interest in his story. After a short while, her arms drop to her sides as she listens intently.
Part way through Iltar’s recounting of events, the host opens the door and steps out. “Sir, your table is ready.”
Glancing to the host, Iltar responds, “Good, and there will be one more joining me.”
The host nods and the two mages walk into the tavern together while Iltar continues to retell the story. They walk across the large room and move to a secluded booth in the corner of the main dining hall.
“There are others we need to find,” Iltar says as he finishes telling the lie. “With you that will make four of the seven members we need to rebuild the Order.”
“I can’t believe it,” Gwenyth raises her hand to her cheek and firmly presses against her smooth skin. “I’m sad to hear Alacor is gone, but I suppose it was for the best.”
“You don’t care for him still, do you?” Iltar asks in a harsh tone.
“For a monster?
No, hearing what he intended killed what last hope I had between him and myself. But I suppose he always had it in him… I can see it.”
Hearing her words gives Iltar a pleasant reassurance that his lie would be easily accepted; not just by her, but by the citizens of Soroth as a whole.
Iltar follows her words saying, “Yes it was. Finally the Order can be back where it should be. Now that you know the details of these recent events, will you take that seat on the council?”
Gwenyth bashfully looks down at the table and smiles, “Why me?”
Iltar pauses and thinks of how to answer the question. “First, I know you. We studied the illusionary arts together. Second, from what I remember you were skilled with that form of magic. You had a… delicate form that… made spells mystical. Like they should be.”
Still looking at the grains in the wooden table, Gwenyth giggles at Iltar’s reasons, “That’s a strange way of giving a compliment Iltar.”
With that said, Gwenyth looks up at Iltar, who is partially around the booth; her face shows that she no longer sees him as that little boy she labeled him as earlier.
A moment later, Gwenyth glides along the surface of the curved booth and nestles in close to Iltar. Once close enough, she rests her head on his shoulder.
“Yes, I will.”
Iltar sits still, with no acknowledgement of the flirting gesture by Gwenyth, mostly from lack of interest and partially from inexperience; the years of loneliness had left the necromancer disillusioned from romance. That thirst for a loving relationship had all dried up and only a thirst for power, both internal and external, motivated him.
Within one day Iltar had successfully recruited three other members to the council; it was enough ensure his deception until the time came for him to resume his journey for greater power.
15
Clues
“Is there any further business to bring to our attention?” Iltar asks from the head of the council table. He sits in his throne like chair in a serious and commanding manner. His sapphire eyes look to each of the men and women in the room.
“I have none,” Baekal answers from the right side of the table.
“No,” Gwenyth states plainly as she leans back in the chair to Iltar’s immediate left.
From Iltar’s right, Arintil responds with the shaking of his head. His hair is completely gray, both atop his head and covering his face. He looks almost identical to his younger brother; however, this older Aramein was mentally sound and wise.
“I do not, Grandmaster Iltar,” an older man sitting next to Gwenyth states in a mild voice. He has dark red hair with highlights of gray, and a beard of the same coloring. His complexion is light with wrinkles in his cheeks and around his eyes.
“Then we are finished. Good evening,” the head of the Order states and leans back in his chair.
One by one, the members of the council rise from their seats and walk toward the doors of the their chambers. Baekal is the first to leave, and exits the room in a hurry.
“I heard you gained six more students Akrin,” Arintil states as he walks around the table.
“Yes,” the old red haired man states as he stands, revealing to be of average height. “I was one of the last transmuters left in Soroth and now in just over two months time there are sixty of us.”
Both men leave in a calm manner, speaking to each other about the progress of their students.
Meanwhile, Gwenyth stands but waits as she looks at Iltar still sitting in his chair; she studies the necromancer and waits for him to notice her.
Once their eyes meet, the female illusionist breaks the silence, “Are you just going to sleep there?”
“No… I’m thinking. That’s all.”
“You’ve been working hard, Iltar. You deserve a break. Look at what you’ve done. Three months ago you were the only mage to walk these halls. Now there are hundreds of students here.”
“Yes… but there’s more to be done,” Iltar grunts as he rises from the chair and ambles toward the doorway. Unknown to Gwenyth, there was more but for his personal quest, not the Order.
Following after the necromancer, Gwenyth quickly comes to Iltar’s side and wraps an arm around him.
“You really are different Iltar,” Gwenyth observes as the two walk out of the council chambers and down the corridor to the northwestern most stairs, “Whatever happened on that island changed you.
“I just wish you would take interest in me.”
As Gwenyth finishes her sentence she presses her lips on Iltar’s nearest cheek then walks around him to the right and continues down that corridor.
Smiling, Iltar watches as Gwenyth enters another room; once she’s gone, Iltar descends the stairs to the first floor of the Order’s main building.
Once he reaches the first floor, Iltar thinks to himself as he walks down the northern corridor to the main doors, “My deception has paid off. Now it is only a matter of gathering information and finding a way to escape to Merdan.”
The sounds of chatter echo along the granite-like walls of the corridor leading to the main doors and the grand foyer of the guild hall. Hearing the sounds, Iltar dons his cowl.
As the necromancer reaches the opening to the large welcoming room he can see the students of the Order socializing from just beyond the edge of his hood. The lone necromancer turns his back on the scene and walks to the entry where two guards on the inside of the doors pull them open, and Iltar steps through the opened doorway. Over the last several months, with the help of Cornar and his warriors, they had recruited able men and women to provide security for the growing Order.
It is a cool and cloudy winter evening. Iltar wraps his thick black robe around himself as he proceeds down the stone path toward the outer gates and then to the stables. The climate on Soroth and its neighboring islands hardly cool enough to allow snow to fall, but the humid air is enough to chill a man to his bones.
A moment later, the necromancer’s black stallion races toward the gates of the magical Order, in one of Iltar’s hands is a swirling mass of green magic. Upon reaching the metal gateway, the necromancer rears his steed upon his hind legs and thrusts the magic onto the gate; dark green tendrils latch onto the metal rods then fly toward the inner parts of the wall, violently pulling the gateway open.
Once open, Iltar kicks the sides of his horse and bolts through the gateway and to the left toward the city’s northern entrance. Cold air seeps into the fibrous pores of Iltar’s robe as he gallops through the streets of Soroth and the highway leading to his country estate.
Upon reaching his home, Iltar looks up to the tower, the lights in the third floor study shine out into the evening. The necromancer leaps off his horse and stomps across the cold ground to the gates of his tower. He opens the threshold abruptly, which causes it to swing wildly.
“Master Iltar,” Jalim, the guard at the tower entrance calls out, “Midal of the Order of Histories has come to visit you. He is waiting within yo–”
“I can see that!” Iltar spits out as he pushes the doors open. The necromancer was not fond of people freely admitting themselves to his private study, other than Cornar who always sent word to him beforehand of his arrival.
Iltar quickly ascends the circular stairs of the first floor muttering, “Perhaps I should have put a welcoming room here… No matter I won’t need this tower for much longer.”
Once atop the third floor, Iltar thrusts the door to the private study open and the necromancer’s eyes menacingly narrow at Midal; the latter is sitting in the chair opposite of Iltar’s favored seat.
The old historian turns in alarm and his eyes widen as he sees Iltar’s angered expression.
“I did not touch, nor look at anything, Grandmaster Iltar.”
“Good,” Iltar quickly walks to the chair and pulls it out from under the table. He swiftly sits down and leans forward saying, “I assume you have everything answered?”
“Yes… and what interesting requests. Why do you want this info
rmation?”
“I paid you to find answers, not question my motivations!” the necromancer angrily stands, using his hands to brace himself as he leans forward. “Now… did you write everything down as I instructed?”
“Yes,” Midal leans back and nods his head, “However, there were some answers that eluded me. For instance I couldn’t find anything about a “Devourer” in Merda or in any other places in history. I even checked for mythical references to it and still I found nothing. Where ever you heard that title it has no historical backing by my understanding.
“As far as an ancient organization of humans that held secret knowledge, I could not find any reference to them.”
“I also could not find the sure cause of the fall of Merda. There are rumors but nothing solid that would point to firm evidence. Werewolves and vampires were two of the legendary causes; but still there was no record in any books of history as to its true abandonment, only that it occurred around four hundred years ago.
“It seems that there were werewolf sightings after the elves re-settled on the western side of the island; but no elves ever gave an explanation to any humans concerning it. Perhaps if one were to go to Keth they could find an answer.”
“I suppose three unanswered questions are better than all of my inquiries,” Iltar sits back down as he speaks and reaches behind him to open a small chest. “You can go now,” the necromancer hands a bag of coins to the scholar in front of him.
“Thank you, Grandmaster Iltar,” Midal rises from the table and bows to the necromancer before leaving the room.
“Midal, remember do not speak of this to anyone; especially members of the city watch.” Iltar’s eyes stare into the man’s back as he faces to open the door.
Glancing over his shoulder to Iltar, Midal replies, “I’m sure whatever you’ve involved me in is serious. Any confession on my end would be seen as acknowledgement in aiding your cause… whatever it is.”
As Midal leaves the tower, Iltar leans back and opens the contents of the scroll. The questions and the answers had been rewritten on a different length of parchment. The first of his questions was left a mystery, and the next one referred to the actual extraordinary beings Iltar had encountered on the dragon’s isle. Iltar looks past his question and begins reading Midal’s written answers:
The Dark Necromancer Page 31
